


Collections Are So Mainstream Now

by MaryPSue



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're like cell phones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Astronaut Training

By the third day after coming home from the North Pole, the Fentons had disconnected the doorbell, taken the phone off the hook, and tried to turn the ghost shield into a human shield. It was only after the last exploded impressively and slimed the assembled paparazzi that the reporters finally backed off. (Getting covered in ecto-gunk from a failed invention was an everyday occurrence in the Fenton household, but the newsmedia saw things a little differently.)

So the knock on the door the morning of the fifth day came as something of a surprise.

The woman in the crisp charcoal-grey suit did a double take when Jack Fenton, larger than life in his usual day-glo orange jumpsuit, threw open the door, bellowed, "Sorry, we don't want any!", and slammed the door in her face.

Or tried to. But the woman wedged her foot between the door and the frame, and before Jack had time to react she'd forced a hand through the crack, flashing a badge. "Mr. Fenton? Agent Claire Adams. I'm with the government. Might I have a word with your son?"

It took a lot of very fast explaining that she really wasn't there to kidnap Danny and whisk him away to some mysterious secret facility for 'study' and dissection, but finally Agent Adams managed to convince Jack and Maddie to let her in. The family assembled in the living room, the agent alone opposite them.

"I thought Danny was officially wiped from your files?" Maddie demanded, before the agent had a chance to say anything. "A token of gratitude from the government?"

"Yeah, and a way better 'token of gratitude' than those stupid statues," Danny muttered.

The agent ignored this aside. "That is true. Your son is officially no longer a person of interest to the government of the United States. All detain and capture orders have been cancelled, and the files on Danny Phantom have been closed."

"But not destroyed."

The agent shifted uncomfortably under Danny's glare. "No. It's imperative that we retain intelligence on individuals who might compromise national security."

"She means they keep information on possible threats," Jazz translated, and the look of utter confusion on her father's face vanished, replaced by a scowl.

"But Danny's not -"

"We also," the agent interrupted, "need to be able to contact individuals with…extraordinary capabilities, should a situation requiring the aid of such individuals arise." She leaned forward slightly, looking Danny directly in the eye. "And that's why I'm here."

"What, you need my help?"

Agent Adams sat back, crossing her legs. "Early this morning, we received an unscheduled and highly unusual transmission from the International Space Station. There are three astronauts currently aboard, and this morning at 0400 hours, they radioed our ground base in Houston to report that they were being held hostage."

"Let me guess. Vlad wants to come home."

The agent nodded once. "And all charges against him dropped, and his public record erased."

"I guess you're not planning to negotiate."

"We _can't_ negotiate. We can't fulfill his terms, and based on past experience, we're highly unlikely to reach a compromise that's acceptable to both parties. We need to end this situation before it can escalate."

"So what do you want me to do?"

The agent seemingly ignored the question. "There's a manned supply mission that was scheduled to leave in a month. We've managed to push it up to four days from today. We'll enter into negotiations to buy us some time, but it's not the negotiations that are going to save those three people." She paused, and took a deep breath. "We want to put you on that shuttle."

When Danny didn't answer, the agent pushed ahead. "I have clearance to put you through a crash course version of basic astronaut training. You won't get the full course, and probably you wouldn't be able to operate the shuttle on your own afterwards, but it would be better than sending you up completely unprepared."

Silence.

"I know it's a lot to ask. If you don't want to -"

"Are you KIDDING?" The agent was the only one who didn't jump at Danny's excited shout. "I've only wanted to be an astronaut since I was six! Of COURSE I want to!"

"Excellent." For the first time, Agent Adams actually smiled. "You should go and get packed. We'll be leaving as soon as you're ready."


	2. Mayoral Duties

So that's it. The day is saved, evil's defeated, everybody gets what they deserve, and they all live happily ever after. Fade to black, roll credits.

Sure, that works in the movies. But in real life? Not so simple.

I didn't expect being mayor to be _easy_. Heck, I expected it to be hard. And full of politics and other things that are only slightly more interesting than Lancer's English class. (Trust me, nothing – _nothing_ – is _less_ interesting than Lancer's English class.) Trying to combine mayoring and schoolwork (and occasional ghost-hunting on the side) just makes it worse. And yet, I let Sam talk me into it _anyway_. Partly because Sam can be really persuasive when she wants to, and partly because I know she's right. This is our chance to change things. Even with that big, shiny new statue outside, who knows what the public opinion of Danny Phantom's gonna be next week? We need somebody in charge of Amity Park who knows what we're really up against, and who won't do something stupid to try and protect the town. And who won't just brush us off as 'a bunch of kids'.

The fact that everyone would have to listen to me, and that there would probably be a couple of babes who wouldn't mind saying they were dating the Mayor, was definitely a bonus. Don't get me wrong, I'd do anything for my friends (even eating – shudder – _vegetables_ ), but the things I'd do to get a date are a very close second.

If I'd known my mayoral duties were going to include _this_ , though, I might have reconsidered. And by 'reconsidered', I mean 'run screaming in the other direction until out of range of a kick from one of Sam's steel-toed boots'.

That… _thing_ is still sitting where I left it, _watching_ me. Waiting to see when I'll crack. If this keeps up, I think that'll take about five more minutes.

It's totally impossible to please. If it would just _tell_ me what it wants, then maybe we could stop playing this stupid game. But no. No, I have to fall at its feet and cater to its every whim, and it doesn't even have the decency to give me a hint. So I have to guess.

"How about steak? Everybody likes steak." I add the plate to the mouthwatering assortment of meaty treats on my desk.

It sniffs at the steak, then puts its nose in the air and turns its back. Just like it's done with everything I've offered it.

"Please don't tell me you eat that rabbit food Sam likes," I groan. It just blinks at me, sleepily, before laying its head on its paws and staring at me. Its expression says, pretty loud and clear, that I don't measure up.

"Fine then. Starve," I tell it, before getting up and leaving the mayor's office, slamming the door behind me. It _should_ be _my_ office, but try telling that to that…that _thing_ in there.

I may have to never talk to Sam again for roping me into this. But…well, it really isn't her fault. Probably. Maybe. How was she supposed to know?

Then again, you'd think _somebody_ could have mentioned that one of the mayoral duties was going to be taking care of Vlad's cat.


	3. Firstborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only explanation I will offer for this is that I have seen quite a few fics where Vlad kidnaps Danny as a baby and raises him as his own. And why should Danny have all the fun?

Jasmine Masters twisted her hair up into something that resembled a bun, and then let it go with a sigh, frowning at the mirror. The girl in the reflection stared back mournfully, looking very unhappy about the stiff, several-years-too-young-for-her knee-length pastel blue dress with the Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves.

"You know, it can be very damaging to a young woman's self-image to force her to dress like a _child_ ," she muttered to herself, brushing back her bangs with a black Alice band. She turned, cautiously, and wrinkled her nose at the mirror. "This dress is even worse than last year's."

"What about last year?"

Jasmine spun around, relaxing slightly when she saw her father standing in the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in."

She got a half-smile in return. "You look positively radiant."

"I look like I'm six." Jasmine snuck a glance over her shoulder at the mirror again. "Do I have to go?"

"Jasmine, you know that this is -"

"- the most important event of the year, and the only thing you really ask of me, I know." She crossed her arms, and then realized that made her look even younger, and quickly uncrossed them again. "I hate these parties. I always have to sit with a bunch of other tycoon's kids and they either spend the whole time talking about stupid stuff or trying to steal the wine."

"They do?"

"Of course they do. They're fourteen year olds at a gathering of adults who're completely engrossed in something that holds absolutely no interest for them. They're going to push the boundaries as much as they can." Jasmine rolled her eyes. "It's so…juvenile." She counted to five, slowly, in her head, as she turned to face the mirror again, and added, "And these dresses don't help."

Just like she'd expected, her father's frown deepened, and he took a step towards her. "What's the matter with your dresses?"

"Oh, I don't know. They're just so...little girlish." She forced down a hint of a smile. "No one is going to take me seriously if I'm wearing pastels. And you never know, I might just want to break into the business world someday." Adding 'like my dear father' would be laying it on a bit too thick, she decided.

Her father put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up, trying to look innocent. The smile she got in return said that she'd have to try a lot harder. "I'll make you a deal. If you come to the party, play nice with the other guests, and don't attempt to train the Lodges' youngest to salivate at the sound of a bell -"

"- that was _once -_ "

"- then I'll take you dress shopping."

"And let me choose my _own_ dress this time?" Jasmine folded her arms again, wishing that it didn't make the puffed sleeves stand up so awkwardly.

Her father pouted mockingly, raising one hand to his chest in a parody of injury. "Jasmine, don't you trust your own father?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Mm, no, I probably don't." Leaning down, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. "We'll be leaving in about ten minutes."

"Right. Just let me fix my hair."


	4. The End

It's the first proper sleep he's had in what feels like forever.

Part of him doesn't want to wake up, doesn't want to let go of that blissful feeling of sleeping deeply and soundly, without being woken by his ghost sense just as he's finally starting to drift off. But sleep is retreating into a distant memory, and try as he might, he can't seem to call it back. Finally, he gives up trying to hang onto the last remaining fragments, and pushes himself up into a sitting position.

He can't remember the last time he felt this rested after a night's sleep. Usually he wakes up almost as exhausted as he was the night before, with some additional aches and pains from the night's ghost hunting as a bonus. But there aren't any aches or pains this morning, and for once, he doesn't feel the least bit tired. Actually, it's just the opposite. A kind of restless energy is building inside him, and he practically itches to get up, get moving, do something that isn't lying here -

\- _on the asphalt?_

The first tiny squiggle of doubt begins to worm its way into his brain. Something isn't right here. Why is he outside? Why hadn't anyone - or anything - woken him up? Why is he still wearing his clothes?

_What the hell happened to my clothes?_

A sudden feeling of deja vu rushes over him as he stares down at the black and blue t-shirt and dark-coloured jeans that have apparently replaced his usual attire. It's like their usual colours have… _reversed_ , somehow. But the last time something like that happened to him was -

But he isn't anywhere near the portal, or - he looks around, and in the faint, greyish pre-dawn light, can't see any landmarks he recognises. He's nowhere near home.

_What the hell happened to me?_

He has to move, to do something, or he's going to totally lose it. He jumps up, looking all around for any clue that might explain how he wound up asleep in the street with colour-reversed clothes. And, unfortunately, he finds it.

The whole street behind him is nothing but rubble, shattered buildings lying in bits on either side of the road. A trench torn right down the middle of the street goes deep enough to reveal the sewer pipes below, asphalt rippled up on either side like the wake left by a boat.

Both the trench and the trail of rubble ends about where he's standing.

There's a feeling, not exactly like nausea but in the same family, beginning to build in the pit of his stomach as he looks down. He can't help it.

Feet below where he's standing casually on thin air without even realising it, there's something small and pitiful and crumpled lying at the very end of the trench. Something vaguely human-shaped, crusted in a rusty brownish-red and twisted in ways that no human should be.

He has to look away when he recognises the mop of dark hair.


	5. Diet Soda

As famous last words go, "BOGUS!" is not one of the top ten. It doesn't even make the top hundred. This is partly because it's an incredibly lame thing to have recorded as one's final utterance in this vale of tears, and partly because, in this case at least, it wasn't technically a _last_ word at all.

Of course, Vlad doesn't know that at the time. All he knows is that the portal's exploded, he's very probably going to die without ever telling Maddie he loves her, and his last words _suck_.

If you'd asked him, a few minutes ago, if the Proto-Portal was dangerous, he'd probably have laughed and assured you that the only thing the Portal might be dangerous to is Jack Fenton's seemingly irrepressible good spirits when it inevitably fails to work. But that was _before_ Jack turned it on. Now it feels like he's been hit by a truck, possibly one that was carrying liquid nitrogen, and as the solid blast of spectral energy tears through Vlad and freezes him to the core, all he can think is _I_ _'_ _m going to die_.

_No._

_I_ _'_ _m dying._

He can barely hear Jack's shout of "V-Man!", thin and somehow far away even though Vlad knows they're both in the same tiny basement lab. Maddie's scream is equally distant, and even through the numbing cold, he feels a flicker of warmth at the sound of her voice, his heart pounding at the thought that she cares enough about him to be so terrified. Maybe she'll break down at his funeral and confess that she was madly in love with him all along. The thought is morbid, but at this point it looks like the best he can hope for.

_I don_ _'_ _t want to die, I_ _'_ _m too young to die, I_ _'_ _ve got too much to do, I don_ _'_ _t want to dieeeee_

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stops. There's still a chill clinging to his spine, but the feeling that thousands of icicles are being pounded through his every cell has finally stopped. And somehow, it's a little anticlimactic. He's certain he was dying, knows it on some level beyond mere observation of the facts, can feel it, as the old cliché says, in his bones. And yet, he's still on his feet, and that's still the lab around him, and there's Jack and Maddie, both looking at him as...if…

…as if they've just seen a –

Thankfully, that's when he passes out.

…

There are many, many things that one wouldn't want to hear immediately on waking from total, blissful unconsciousness. "Right, now do the other kneecap," is probably one of them, as is, "Do any of you know how long it takes for concrete to set?" "Did anyone call 911?" is pretty bad as well, although then you have some clue that the future will likely not contain broken kneecaps or large amounts of chickenwire and several fathoms of water, and even though it's probably going to contain enormous amounts of pain, there is also a high possibility of cute nurses.

For Vlad Masters, hearing the love of his life begin to say, "I think he's awa-", only to be instantly interrupted by his best friend's overexuberant shout of "VLADDY!" are the worst imaginable sounds to wake up to, mostly because they promise a bone-crushing bear hug from Jack.

The hug is more excruciating than he expected. Apparently, Vlad is still more than a little sore from the portal incident, and Jack was seriously worried about his friend. It's nearly a full minute before Vlad can get a breath, and even then it's only because Maddie – _thank you, there is a God_ – says, "Jack, I think you're choking him."

Jack drops Vlad – literally, as Vlad hits the bed – _wait a second, bed?_ – with a thump and a jolt that makes him grind his teeth in pain – and takes a step back, letting Vlad see that they're back in his dorm room. _When_ - _?_

"We were worried about you, V-Man!" Jack exclaims, and Vlad finds himself wondering, not for the first time, whether his friend _ever_ turns down the volume. "Well, Maddie was worried," Jack adds quickly, "but I knew you'd be fine. Takes more than a Proto-Portal to put the V-Man down, eh?" He punctuates this with an elbow to Vlad's ribs, and Vlad tries unsuccessfully not to wince.

"What happened?" he asks, aware of how lame that must sound.

Jack and Maddie exchange a _look_ , and Vlad tries to ignore the sudden feeling that he's just swallowed two tons of lead. "How bad is it?" He tries not to let the thought into his head, but it's there already, grinning nastily and prodding him towards an unhappy realization.

"Well, you're not dead," Jack blurts, and Maddie shoots him a glare that even Jack Fenton can't miss the meaning of. "And maybe I should just stop talking now and let Maddie tell you."

Probably a phrase as ominous as, "Well, you're not dead," should have Vlad more worried, but he can't bring himself to be too terrified, since Jack has just, though unwittingly, all but banished the nasty sneaking thought that was trying to bring itself to Vlad's attention. If he's not dead, then there's no way he can be a –

"Actually, you were really lucky," Maddie begins, biting her bottom lip slightly in a way that's just totally adorable. "It looks like the only real damage was cosmetic…"

"Yeah, who knows what might have happened if Maddie hadn't stopped me from pouring that diet soda into the ecto-filtrator!" Jack's smile slips a few notches when he notices that neither of his friends are looking particularly pleased with him, and asks, "What?"

"Wait just one second. What do you mean, _the only real damage was cosmetic_?" Vlad demands, his brain having finally caught up to his ears.

"Well, you're not missing any pieces, if that's what you're worried about!"

"Jack?" Maddie asks, in that sweet, patient voice that means she's a few words away from becoming very nasty and _im_ patient, and you had better watch where you tread. It says volumes about the seriousness of the situation that Jack actually notices.

"Um. Right. Letting Maddie talk."

"I don't really care _who_ talks! Would someone please just tell me _what happened to me?_ "

Both Jack and Maddie flinch slightly at Vlad's outburst.

"Well," Maddie begins, slowly, like she's talking someone off the edge of a cliff, "the portal didn't quite act the way we'd expected -"

"Right, right, and I got hit in the face when it suddenly _exploded outwards_."

"Um, yes, and -" She's speechless. That's impossible. Maddie always has something to say, always something intelligent and thoughtful and _she_ _'_ _s speechless_.

This can't be good.

She's not looking at him, she's – oh, she's rummaging through her bag. When she straightens up, she's holding a little black circular thing. She hands it to him, without a word.

Possibly no one has ever faced a handheld powder compact with such apprehension before.

The mirror isn't really designed to give anyone a good look at themselves, since its purpose is mainly deceiving young women into thinking they need more makeup, so at first Vlad doesn't see what has both Jack and Maddie so alarmed. It's only by bits and pieces that he manages to put it together, and when he does, it seems entirely anticlimactic.

"All right, so it bleached my hair and now I look about forty years older. This is…" It's not the terror he'd half expected, which is nothing short of a huge relief, but he's not exactly jumping for joy over the unwanted results. Still, at least he's not dead.

"Totally bogus?" Jack offers helpfully, and Vlad can't suppress a shudder at the thought of how close that had been to being his last word, ever.

"Actually, that wasn't what I was thinking at _all_."

"Oh." But it would take a lot more than that to subdue Jack Fenton for any length of time, and in the next instant he's already recovered his usual energy. "You should've seen yourself right after we -"

"A- _hmm_?"

"Well, after _Maddie_ shut the portal off. I swear your eyes were glowing!"

"What?" Now that the scary part is over with, the world's beginning to take on a more familiar shape again. Not to mention the fact that sheer relief is buoying Vlad up faster than a hot air balloon. "Jack, that's impossible."

"That's what we thought," Maddie says, and she's starting to sound excited. "Theoretically, spectral energy shouldn't have any real effect on something from our dimension. They just shouldn't be able to interact. But apparently our theories were off base. We'll have to do more research on the effects of spectral energy on physical objects, and living things especially. A _lot_ more research." Her whole face lights up, the way it does whenever she's talking about a new project or an interesting new development, and it makes her even more beautiful, if that's possible.

"Well, I don't want to be your test subject," Vlad says quickly, and Maddie laughs. God, she's got a wonderful laugh. "I think that _once_ was more than enough."

"If the portal had worked, we would have -" Jack starts, and Maddie sighs.

"If the portal had worked, we wouldn't be sitting here with ideas for new experiments. And the results will help us design a _new_ portal."

"One that works?"

"That would be the idea, yes," Vlad interjects, feeling a little bit left out. After all, _he_ _'_ _s_ the one who was nearly killed by a blast of supposedly harmless spectral energy, right? Shouldn't Maddie be talking to _him_ in that reassuring voice?

She's nodding, what looks like it's trying very hard to be a stern expression on her face. "But this time, Jack, let me check your calculations _before_ you turn it all on."

Nobody says anything. They just manage to meet each other's eyes, and suddenly they're all laughing, the kind of laughter that appears without warning and comes from somewhere deep down. It's three in the morning laughter, drunken on sheer relief and released terror, the kind of laughter that appears unannounced, feeds on everyone around it until it borders on hysteria, and leaves you breathless and with aching sides. It comes out of nowhere, catching them all by surprise.

And Vlad, happy to let go of his worries for even just a little while, barely notices the chill still clinging to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of an AU-thing I began ages ago and don't know if I'll ever finish.


	6. Otherworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during "Prisoners of Love".

" _Wow, this place is amazing!"_

_"No, it's not. It's creepy."_

As soon as I said it, I felt awful about lying to Sam, even by omission. Yeah, the Ghost Zone was creepy. But not because it was so strange, so otherworldly, so… _weird_.

What was creepy about it was that, weird as it was, creepy as it was, being in the Ghost Zone didn't freak me out half as much as I'd thought it would. Actually, it felt familiar. Comfortable. Like I belonged there.

And that scared me more than any floating doors or mysterious green swirling ecto-goop ever could.


	7. Firstborn, Part the Second

The party was more boring than memorizing the various neurotransmitters in the human body had been. Admittedly, this was at least in part because Jasmine had said a few perfunctory greetings, faking a huge and brilliant and, most importantly, genuine smile for the few people in the room who actually mattered, and then retreated to the table holding the punch. After doing this for nearly sixteen years, she'd learned how to read the room, how to tell whose business would be merging with whose in the year to come and whose would be acquired, who was on the rise and who was scrambling to stay on top. In other words, who it was worth trying to impress, and who she could get away with making the absolute minimum effort with and still not get shouted at afterwards for reflecting poorly on her father.

She recognized most of the people in the room from last year's party, with a few exceptions. The same crop of kids had returned, a year older but not any less obnoxious. The Lodges' daughter was growing up into a real spoiled brat, and for a few seconds she entertained the thought of using the girl as a test subject for a little harmless psychological research, before remembering her deal with her father.

Jasmine sighed, and, making sure no one was watching, leaned an elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand. Unladylike, but comfortable. If she had half her father's talent at working a room, she wouldn't be sitting here alone. She didn't know how he did it; after about five minutes of pretending to care about someone's Akita or the hot new property they'd just acquired, she had to fight down a huge and overwhelming desire to yawn. Which would be far more rude even than putting her elbows on the punch table.

Everyone was just so _phony,_ and she found it hard to care about their put-on personas. Sometimes she wondered what they all did behind closed doors, if they were really as stiff as they seemed or as suave as they apparently thought they were, what dirty little secrets they were all hiding. Sometimes she'd try to deduce, from their body language and the things they'd say. Sometimes she'd just make things up. There had to be real people in there, somewhere, past the layers of formalities and appearances.

If so, though, these people were pretty damn good at hiding them. Although not ever quite as good as they believed they were. Jasmine knew, for example, that Mr. Drysdale was not sleeping with his wife, that Mrs. Pickford was addicted to shopping, that the Mansons were afraid to take their daughter out in public (although that was practically common knowledge), and that Mr. Wayne was hiding _something_. She didn't know exactly what, yet, but she was fairly confident she'd find out eventually.

"Hey."

Jasmine looked up, and found herself looking directly into the green eyes of a boy she'd never met before. Almost without her realizing it, her lips curved up into a smile. "Is this seat taken?"

"No, go ahead." She straightened up, making sure she didn't have her elbows on the table. She'd already blown the first impression, but old habits died hard.

"You look bored," the boy observed, as Jasmine observed the boy. White-blonde hair, slicked back with too much gel – either it was naturally unruly or this guy was a narcissist. He was tall, and a little bony, and wearing a blazer that suited him about as well as her dress did her, and totally waiting for an answer to his question.

"You don't look terribly enthralled yourself," she answered, scooting her chair over slightly so that he could sit down beside her. "Don't you like business parties?"

The guy's mouth quirked slightly, into something that looked like it was halfway to a smile. "Love them." He sighed, and then leaned over on the table, putting his head down on his folded arms. "Did your parents make you come?"

"Something like that."

"Mine dragged me along. Usually I get to skip these stupid things, but they want me to meet Mr. Masters' daughter." He made a face, and Jasmine silently thanked whatever powers might be running the universe that years of trying to outmaneuver her father had given her a really good poker face. "They're probably going to try and set us up."

Jasmine wondered if her father knew about that particular plan, and what he thought of it. "Wow. Imagine that."

The guy shifted slightly, so that he was looking directly at her. "It's just kind of insulting, you know? And this Jasmine's probably just like the rest of these spoiled, self-centred princesses."

"Oh, really?" Glancing back up at the room, Jasmine noticed that her father was walking straight towards the table, and had to pinch herself to keep from laughing. This was going to be priceless.

"Yeah. All of these society girls turn out to be total airheads, spoiled brats, or – Mr. Masters!"

Jasmine's father looked from the boy to his daughter, and smiled. "There you are, Jasmine. I was just coming to ask you if you'd met Elliot Bigland yet, but it looks like you two found each other on your own."

The look on the boy's face was worth sitting through the whole boring party for.


	8. A Good Man

Jack Fenton was not what anyone would call a smart man. Intelligent in his own laser-focused way, perhaps, inventive and endlessly imaginative, with bottomless reserves of optimism, but not smart. Never smart.

But that hadn't ever bothered him. Because Jack, whatever else he might be, was a good man. Maybe he wasn't so smart, but he cared fiercely about the people he loved, and would do anything to protect them. Maybe he'd caused a few explosions in the name of science, but he'd never hurt anyone. At least, not intentionally.

But you know what they say about the road to hell.

He knew his best friend hadn't forgiven him. But even after Vlad stopped talking to Jack, even after he changed his number and the letters Jack sent started to come back unopened, Jack kept trying. Because Jack Fenton might be a tactless, clueless idiot, but he was a good man. He would never let someone he cared about down. And Vlad had every right not to forgive him. After all, Jack hadn't even forgiven himself.

Time would heal things. Time, and space, and there was no way Jack was giving up on his best friend. But twenty years of returned Christmas cards and no contact would start to wear anyone down.

And then the invitation to the reunion came. And even though it was a formal invitation to an official event, Jack recognized it for what it really was: a white flag. After all these years, Vlad was finally giving him a second chance. And this time, Jack wasn't going to blow it.

He blew it.

The reunion was a disaster. Jack couldn't remember exactly what happened, but he knew that his best friend's mansion had been trashed – by a ghost, no less! – and that it was somehow, inexplicably, inevitably, his fault. There was no way Vlad was ever going to forgive him now. Not that he deserved to be forgiven. He wouldn't be surprised if Vlad never talked to him again.

But for whatever reason, he _did_. And Jack couldn't help but see it as gaining another chance. Every time their paths crossed, Jack tried harder and harder, maybe to deserve the chances he got, maybe to make amends, maybe just to prove to himself that he hadn't given up. But every single time, it all went wrong. Or rather, _he_ did something wrong. And as the gap kept growing, the more Jack was determined to close it. Was what he'd done really so awful, so unforgivable? Was _he_ really so awful?

He couldn't be. Because Jack Fenton was a good man. And good men didn't give up on people, didn't let the people they cared about down. No matter how hard it was. No matter how much it might hurt. Good men didn't just leave people.

When Vlad revealed his damning secret, when he held the world hostage, no one was as shocked as Jack. He'd spent the last twenty-odd years convinced that he'd done something wrong, that he'd always been doing something wrong, that something inside of him was irreversibly flawed. That it was his fault he'd lost his best friend, that he deserved every blow and every rejection he'd got. And now he knew the truth: he'd been an idiot. A blind, stupid, oblivious _idiot_. He'd put the people he cared most about, his family, in danger over and over again because he'd been too stupid to give up and see how much Vlad had changed.

It felt good, after that, to leave Vlad floating in space. To see the look of shock and betrayal on his best friend's – _former_ best friend's – face. To know that he'd hurt Vlad almost as badly as Vlad had hurt him. And it continued to feel good right up until Jack's ship landed and his family was waiting for him. Until his wife flung her arms around him and squeezed so hard it hurt and whispered, "You did the right thing."

That was when he knew. He hadn't. He'd been angry, and he'd done something stupid and irreversible. He'd lashed out. He'd pushed his best friend away. He'd hurt Vlad, as much as he could, and he'd _enjoyed_ it.

He'd done the exact same thing his former best friend had once done.

Jack Fenton was not what anyone would call a smart man. But he was smart enough to know that he was not a good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't blame Jack for anything.  
> But I think Jack might blame himself.


	9. Firstborn, Part the Third

A soft _click_ from behind him was the only thing that told Elliot that he wasn't alone in the study. Leaving the papers he'd been rifling through, he turned, to find himself staring straight down the barrel of a small handgun. It was aimed at his head, and held by an unusually stony-faced Jasmine Masters. When he met her eyes, he noticed with interest that the gun didn't waver so much as a millimeter.

Still, he tried. "You wouldn't."

Jasmine's voice was surprisingly soft. "You have no idea what I would or wouldn't do."

"Do you even know how to shoot that thing?"

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "I'm the only daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the world and I've never had a bodyguard. What do you _think_?"

Elliot had to concede the point. "Are you going to turn me in?"

Jasmine smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "That depends."

"Depends?"

"On whether you try anything stupid." She waved the gun. "I hate to sound like a cliché, but…hands where I can see them, please."

Elliot sighed, and gave up his attempt to draw the dart gun, cleverly disguised as a pen, which was tucked uselessly into his back pocket. "All right. How did you find out?"

"You're not exactly subtle." Her face softened slightly. "How did you find out that I wanted to learn guitar? I thought nobody knew about that."

"You have your secrets, I have mine." Elliot glanced at the papers now spread across Jasmine's father's desk with a sigh. They'd looked so promising, too. "How long have you known?"

"Since the second date." Jasmine waved the gun again. "But I needed proof. What are you looking for, anyway? And who are you really?"

Elliot looked from the gun to Jasmine's face, and decided that talking his way out of this one wasn't going to be an option. He sighed heavily, raising both hands above his head in a conciliatory gesture and noticing how Jasmine tensed. "All right. No point in lying about it now." He moved to stuff his hands contritely into his pockets, but Jasmine shook her head. "Your father's business practices have been…well, suspect."

"But my father's been in business for decades. Why're they only investigating now?"

Elliot laughed. "Now? The IRS has been trying to pin something on him for nearly sixteen years. Your dad has really good lawyers."

Jasmine smiled, a real smiled, with a touch of pride. "So they had to hire a private detective to pretend to be interested in me to dig something up?"

Elliot didn't feel it would be polite to correct her. Not to mention that it would blow what little cover he had left. So he shrugged.

Jasmine nodded, still smiling, although now there was a hint of sadness in it. "I'm not surprised." Elliot reached, surreptitiously, for his dart gun, only to see Jasmine's smile vanish as she snapped the pistol back up to point at his head. "But that leaves the question of what to do with you."

Elliot took a deep breath, and a risk. "Well, you could always help me."

Jasmine blinked. The gun still didn't waver, but Elliot got the very strong impression that this was more because she was sideswiped than because she was still focused on him as a threat. "Wh-why would I want to do that?" And then, her tone turning suspicious, "If you try to say it's because you've fallen madly in love with me for real, I will shoot you in the leg and leave you here for my father to find."

Elliot hastily reconsidered his tactics. "No, no, no! I wouldn't insult your intelligence like that." He noticed with some satisfaction that Jasmine smiled again at that. "Look. I just want information about your dad's business practices. There must be something you want that I can help you get. We could sort of…you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, sort of thing?"

"Now you're talking." Jasmine looked him up and down, calculatingly. Elliot was starting to really wish she'd put the gun down, and not just because it would make it easier for him to tranq her and get out of Dodge. She bit her lower lip, looking lost in thought for a few seconds, and then said, "I want to find my mother."

It was Elliot's turn to be sideswiped. "You what now?"

"My mother." There was a hint of steel in Jasmine's voice. "I have no idea who she is, if she's out there somewhere, if she even knows I'm still alive. I haven't been able to get anything out of my father. You want information on his business? I want information on my mother."

Elliot did what might have been the stupidest thing he could have done. He laughed. "Yeah, you, and the paparazzi, and the news media, and everyone with a house in the Hamptons. Trust me, if the tabloids haven't found out who she was -" He stopped, realizing that the look on Jasmine's face was turning murderous.

"Well, if you can't do it, then I don't really need anything from you," she snapped. "My father won't be very happy to hear about how heartbroken his only daughter was to find out that her first boyfriend's been _lying_ to her. And he _really_ won't be happy when he finds out what her boyfriend's been lying to her about…"

Elliot muttered something uncomplimentary. "And you've got all the cards. You really are your father's daughter."

Jasmine's smile returned, almost blinding. "So, have we got a deal? I turn a blind eye and let you keep on using me as cover, and you tell me everything you find out about my mother?"

"Blind eye?" Elliot laughed again, this time nervously. "No way. I'm going into something this dangerous, I want your help."

Jasmine frowned. "No promises."

Elliot considered this for a moment, glancing at the gun in Jasmine's hand, and decided that this was probably as good as he was going to get. "Deal."


	10. Normal

Valerie Grey hates working at the Nasty Burger. She hates it so much, in fact, that if you asked her to give you one reason why she hates it so much, you'd better have a free hour or two to listen to her diatribe. She hates the frumpy, unflattering, unfashionable uniform, she hates the constant smell of grease, she hates most of her co-workers, she hates the drop in social status she's taken since she started working here (not that she had all that far to fall, not after what that ghost-boy did to her family, and she _still_ hasn't forgiven him for that, thank you for asking, yes, she _is_ going to get her revenge one of these days, but she was telling you why she hates working at the Nasty Burger and if you don't mind, she'd like to finish), and she hates the minimum-wage pay. But more than any of this, what Valerie _really_ hates is the customers.

It's the mothers with the screaming babies who try to bribe the kids into silence with sugary treats and promises of ponies. It's the toddlers who do unspeakable things on the floor (which, of course, you _know_ who has to clean it up, and even though there's policies about this sort of thing, somehow Valerie _still_ winds up scrubbing up vomit and worse without gloves or _anything)_. It's the customers who shout their entire order in one breath and then give her the evil eye when she hasn't got it all down yet. It's the people who ask the _stupidest_ questions (how meaty is a Mighty Meaty Melt? How meaty do you _think_ it is?) and don't actually listen to the answers. It's the snotty professionals who talk to her like, just because she's under twenty-five and employed in fast food, she must be mentally inferior. But most of all, it's the people her age, who are just there to have a burger and goof off while Valerie has to _work_.

It's probably common to every employee of every fast food place everywhere. Force someone to cater to the every whim of entitled, self-absorbed, ungrateful, occasionally well-meaning, but always incredibly _annoying_ people all day, pretty well every day, and that person is bound to start resenting the people who pay their wages. On an almost daily basis, Valerie wants to just _accidentally_ leave a pot of Nasty Sauce on the grill and then push off to sweep the parking lot (another dirty, tiring, unnecessary and pointless and redundant chore that, of course, inevitably falls to _her_ ) and only come back to see if the explosion left any interesting carnage.

Or she wishes that some malevolent, powerful ghost (maybe with that ghost-boy hot on its tail; much as she'd like to deny it, Valerie has to admit she hasn't ever actually _seen_ him purposely causing serious and unprovoked damage to anyone or anything since Axion Labs, but he seems to turn up wherever other ghosts do. Usually fighting them. He must have a _lot_ of enemies in the ghost world, and Valerie wonders, sometimes, what he did to _them_ to get them all so ticked off) would come tearing through the restaurant and force her to battle it, unfortunately demolishing the Nasty Burger in the process. Of course, they're nothing but daydreams, but sometimes, when some rich old bat in a fur coat ( _really_? Who comes to eat in the _Nasty Burger_ in a _fur coat_?) is haranguing Valerie over the counter about why her order isn't ready the moment she ordered it, they seem very, _very_ appealing.

It's just frustrating, having to bow and scrape and smile and not tell the man who's currently shouting at her about there being tomatoes on his burger that he didn't order it _without_ tomatoes, how the _hell_ was Valerie supposed to know that he was allergic to tomatoes, he didn't even _ask_ if there were tomatoes on the burger, and knowing that she'll have to do it again, and again, and keep smiling and apologizing to the people who are making her job a nightmare. And she has to keep them happy, and oblivious to that simple little fact. _And she's going to have to come back tomorrow and do it all again_. By the end of her shift, her smile is more like a death's-head grimace and she thinks her teeth are stuck together.

She punches out with a sigh of relief, ready to trudge home and attempt to purge the echoes of angry shouts and stupid questions and the constant monotone beeps of the tills from her mind for long enough to do her homework. Her grades have been slipping lately, but whose fault do you think _that_ is, now that she's trying to keep her father and herself afloat _and_ protect the town from ghosts, especially the one that everyone's half-convinced is a hero. Valerie hasn't forgotten, though sometimes she seems to be the only one, what he did to the mayor, what he did to her life, what he could do to a town that blindly places its trust in him. The thought sends chills down her back.

She only glances jealously at Danny, Sam, and Tucker, sitting in one of the booths and chatting like they haven't got a care in the world, for a moment. Sure, she wishes _her_ life were like that. No ghost hunting, no slipping grades, no crappy apartment that they're _still_ struggling to pay the rent on, no _stupid_ Nasty Burger job, just time to hang out with her friends and worry about her schoolwork and social status and whether a boy likes her. Like a _normal_ kid.

Maybe that's what she likes so much about Danny. Despite having the weirdest family a kid could possibly get stuck with, he's just so _normal_. And being around him makes her feel like, just for a little while, she can escape all the weirdness and difficulty that seem to constantly snap at her heels.

Valerie shakes her head as she pushes open one of the doors and steps out into the sunlight. She only has a moment to enjoy the beautiful day, though, before screams shatter the peace and quiet.

Valerie sighs to herself, checks to see that no one's watching, and dives into the nearest alley, summoning her suit from…wherever it goes when she doesn't need it, before speeding off towards the sounds of screams and wicked laughter in the distance. Yeah, she'd like to be normal. But, as she herself would say, never gonna happen.

Besides, _somebody_ has to protect Amity Park. It might as well be her.


	11. Post-Human Consciousness

_There's no such thing as a 'half-ghost'._

It takes everything Maddie has not to react when her son - the _ghost_ of her son - stumbles into the kitchen half-awake and drops heavily into a chair. He reaches for the box of cereal, and blinks blearily when his hand passes through it. Maddie quickly focuses on the device lying eviscerated on the table in front of her, pretending she hasn't seen.

Her hands shake slightly as she picks at the circuitry, and she grabs the blowtorch on the table beside her to disguise it. She isn't sure that this is the right thing to do, to let the ghost keep up this delusion of a half-life, but she doesn't know what else to do. It took them nearly a month to figure out what was going on, and by that point it had been too late. Danny wasn't telling them anything, and he wasn't going anywhere.

This isn't what she wanted for her baby boy. This isn't what she'd want for _anyone_ , but if she's being honest, it's easy to forget that most ghosts were people, once. It's easy to turn the study of ghosts into an objective science, easy to put a soul under a microscope.

This isn't easy. This ghost is her son, and it isn't objective or scientific or easy.

When they'd realised that Danny wasn't going to come to them, she'd wanted to go to him, talk to him, try to explain what had happened and help him find peace. It was Jack's idea to let Danny – or the scraps of emotion and consciousness that's all that's left of her precious Danny – keep up his charade, keep pretending he's keeping his supposed half-life a secret. Jack seemed to think that Danny just needed to deal with some sort of unfinished business, since he hadn't turned malevolent. And Danny had seemed so proud after defeating that meat-monster, so… _purposeful_ , that Maddie couldn't bring herself to disagree.

But it had been the wrong choice. After he'd turned on the town, even attacking them – his own parents! - at City Hall, even Jack had agreed they couldn't sit by and hope their little boy would work it out for himself anymore. Something had to be done before he lost what little remained of his humanity.

They couldn't sit him down and talk to him, not now. His conviction that he's still at least half-alive is too deeply entrenched to shake now without destroying him, or driving him completely mad and turning him into the kind of monster they want to keep him from becoming. In fact, it's probably one of the only things keeping him tied to Amity Park.

In the meantime, though, all they can really do is play along. Trying to keep him from hurting anyone – including himself – would have been hard enough, but trying to do it while playing at ignorance is killing her. And it doesn't help that Danny doesn't seem to realise that he's losing his grip, convinced that he was framed for what he did. They'll have to make him realise it for himself somehow, but that's starting to seem more and more unlikely.

Maddie pours her attention into welding shut a connection. When she flips her goggles back up off of her head, her son – the _ghost_ \- is gone, a rather forlorn-looking bowl of cereal sitting abandoned at his place. She sighs, and sets the welding torch down. Does he _really_ think that no one notices when he disappears like that? He's so proud of how well he's kept his little secret, when half the town must know by now.

She takes a moment to compose herself before she slides her chair back from the table, pushing herself up with a little difficulty. She'd better go find Jack and get after Danny before he hurts someone or they lose their window to capture him without shattering his illusions.

Hopefully this latest invention works. She snaps the case back into place over the exposed circuit boards and flips the sleek metal box over, flipping the 'on' switch. No time for a trial run – they'll just have to hope.

Like it or not, the piece of post-human consciousness that was once her son _will_ be moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a bit of devastating headcanon/AU from sassyphantomfrost on tumblr.


	12. Temporal Restrictions

“Hey, Clockwork?”

“Daniel, I thought we agreed that you could study here so long as you didn’t bother me,” the Master of Time replied, without turning away from the scene even now playing itself out in the glass in front of him.

“Yeah, but polynomials are confusing.” Danny rotated slowly until he was hanging upside down, legs crossed, in midair over his math textbook. “And I have a question.”

“So long as it doesn’t concern polynomials.”

“Ghosts are the spirits of dead people, right?”

This dragged Clockwork’s attention away from whatever historical turning point he was watching. “What brought this on?”

Danny shrugged, which looked considerably more interesting upside down. “Just – most of the ghosts I fought when I first got my powers, I could tell that they were human before. But these ones Amity’s been getting lately? I mean, it’s just kind of hard to imagine Undergrowth or whatever ever having been anything other than a giant plant-monster.”

“You’ve encountered animal ghosts, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think there’s any animals that can slither into your dreams.” Danny bobbed downwards, his overlong bangs brushing the pages of his math textbook.

Clockwork couldn’t help a small smile. His young charge was bright, but it sometimes took a few tries to fit an idea into his head. “More than just humans leave their spirits behind.”

Danny rotated slowly upright again. “And you don’t mean animals? What else _is_ there?” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure I want to know.”

Clockwork turned back to his viewing glass. “Gods and idols have limited lifetimes. Not as limited as humans, but limited nonetheless. Once they lose the last of their worshippers, once their names are forgotten, their lives are over.” He smiled, small and secretive. “But that doesn’t always mean the end of them. You should ask your girlfriend about it, she’s undoubtedly better-versed in neo-paganism than I am.”

Danny laughed. “Yeah, I doubt it. Sam might be goth, but she’s also Jewish.”

The clock tower returned to what passed for silence, broken only by the soft, almost unnoticeable ticking, whirring, and whispering as various time-keeping devices counted off seconds in various timelines, and the occasional frustrated noise as Danny faced off against his most difficult and tenacious enemy: math. It was a few long minutes before he said anything else.

“So what about you?”

“Hm?”

“What about you?” Danny repeated, leaning forward. “Were you ever… I mean, have you just always been in charge of the time stream, or -”

“If that’s your idea of politely asking someone how they died, perhaps you should reconsider your approach.” Clockwork was still smiling, though. “To answer your question, though, yes, I have always been in charge of time. Ever since there _was_ time.”

“So you weren’t human?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

“I’m the master of time, Daniel. Not one of its subjects.” As if to illustrate the point, the ghost shifted into his long-bearded, ancient form. Seeing the look of absolute befuddlement on Danny’s face, he sighed and elaborated. “I haven’t died yet.”

“Wait, but – you’re a ghost?”

“Yes. And have been since the dawn of time.”

“But you’re not dead yet.”

“No.”

“So how is that possible?”

Polynomials, apparently, weren’t the only concepts Danny struggled to grasp. Clockwork paused, deliberating how best to turn the idea to make it fit into the available space in the teenager’s head. “I can travel at will through all of time, Daniel. I once told you that the Observants see time as a parade?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Danny replied.

“They way you and most humans experience time is as a part of the parade, stuck on a float which carries you forward along a predetermined path. You can never go back, or jump ahead, and you cannot see beyond the floats ahead of and behind you. The Observants feel so powerful because they watch from the sidelines, but even their view is limited.”

“And you see the whole thing from above, with all the twists and turns it could possibly take. You told me all of this,” Danny sighed.

“It doesn’t seem to have sunk in.” Clockwork tapped the glass with his staff. It went dark, but only for a moment. Seconds later, a brilliant flare of white light scorched Danny’s retinas.

“This is the beginning of this universe, and of time itself.”

“The Big Bang?” Danny guessed.

“Exactly. If I wanted to, I could be there.” The scene in the glass flickered, a quick succession of images crossing its face. “Or the French Revolution. Or the extinction of the dinosaurs. Or ten years into your future.”

Danny grimaced. “Let’s not go there. I don’t get how this is supposed to explain anything, though.”

“Your future self was able to return to your present, before he was created. And that was with the help of my medallion.”

Danny shifted uncomfortably. “So you’re saying you can just travel to any point in time?” he asked, obviously eager to change the subject. “Wait, if there’s a living you wandering around right now, then… _you’re_ from the future?”

The look Danny got in return said, quite clearly, that he had sailed gleefully over the point and landed several miles away. “Wasn’t the whole point of this conversation that I’m not bound by your temporal restrictions? But yes, from your point of view, I am -” Clockwork sighed heavily – “ _from the future_.”

Danny sat motionless for a long moment, before shaking his head. “I think I should have stuck to the polynomials.”

…

When Danny wandered up of the basement, head full of whirling numbers and letters, his whole family was gathered in the living room. “What’s -” he started, before it clicked that there was one person extra. “Jazz? You’re back from school?”

“Danny!” The redhead jumped up and dashed across the room, flinging her arms around her little brother’s neck despite his protests. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“Glad to see you too, Dr. Freud! How’s Berkeley?”

Jazz grinned from ear to ear. “It’s amazing. All of my classes are fascinating, although I think my Deviant   
Behaviour prof doesn’t believe in ghosts, so if I really want to publish that thesis on ghost envy -”

“Whoa, please tell me you’re not spending _all_ your time doing schoolwork? Jazz, you of all people should know how important human interaction is to proper mental development.”

Jazz’ smile got a little more secretive at that. “Then you’re going to be _very_ happy to hear that I have a boyfriend.”

Danny blinked. “Sorry, I thought my bookworm sister just told me that she has a boyfriend.”

“You heard right.” Jazz was practically bouncing. “His name’s Cal, he’s a physics major, and he’s _wonderful_.”

“Physics major?” Danny raised an eyebrow.

“Even I don’t understand half of what he talks about,” Jazz admitted, mock-seriously. “But seriously, never get him started on the nature of time.”


	13. Fifteen Ways to Become Your Evil Future Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Daphne Gottlieb's poem, 'Fifteen Ways to Stay Alive'. The first and probably last time I will ever write fanpoetry.

1: Start with 'once upon a time'.

2: Be curious. Develop a need to know what is on the other side. Open doors, boxes, portals. Anything locked must have a key. Find it. Open it. There was never an apple that was not worth the trouble you got into for stealing it.

3: Believe like a child, that stubborn fragile certainty. Dress up. Play pretend. Be assured that you are right, you are good, and the world is made for you.

4: 'Once upon a time, there was a hero'.

5\. Be selfish. If you are a child, you cannot be responsible. If you are a child, you cannot be accountable. There is an account to be made; there is red in the other ledger and you know just how they can cross it out. Be assured that you are right. After all, you are good, and the world is made for you.

6: Know your strength. Know the power of your arms, of your words, of your thoughts. Know the power of your choices. You are not a child anymore, and your powers are not a child's plaything. Know your limits. Push them.

7: Open your mouth. Open your eyes. The world is dark and full of terrors, and you are one of them. Was not the world made for you?

8: 'Once upon a time, there was a villain'.

9: Be curious. If there is a barrier, there must be something on the other side. Break it. Open it. There was never a box so full of horrors that it hadn't hope buried somewhere in its depths.

10: Be confident in your powers. You know them so well, and understand them so poorly; rely on them, they will not fail you.

11: Trust your voice. Speak. Shout. Scream.

12: Reveal your secrets. Trust your enemies. Fear your friends. The world is dark and full of terrors, and you are nothing but a child.

13: Fall silent.

14: Kill yourself. Kill yourself, and die a thousand small slow deaths. Reflect in the moment of your dying on parallelism and circular narratives, on how at the end of all his trials, the hero always finds his way safely back home. You have crossed water and fire to make it this far. Kill yourself, and live.

15: 'And they all live happily ever after'.


	14. Whole World Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short scenes that were originally written as part of a larger fic which was too ambitious for me at the time I started writing it. It may still be too ambitious. For now, I'm crossposting what I have already shared on tumblr, plus some scenes that were written and never shared.

**17 August, 2009**

**3:32 P.M.**

It’s way too nice of a day for a funeral.

When you think of funerals, you think of a steady drizzle whispering down on an army of black umbrellas, or at least a grey and overcast sky. The kind of day that looks as melancholy as you’re supposed to feel. You don’t think of muggy, hundred-degree heat, making everybody sweat inside their nice black clothes, swarms of mayflies everywhere, and not a single cloud in the beautifully blue sky. It’s a bit shocking to realize that the weather doesn’t care, that the world keeps on spinning even though you feel like it’s been turned upside down.

About halfway through the eulogy, I can’t keep listening anymore without protesting, and start scanning the crowd instead. There are a few familiar faces dotted in between the ones I don’t recognize, the people who showed up just because of who we’re burying. There are a few faces I didn’t expect. Valerie’s here, for one, and for once she isn’t scowling. She looks almost…guilty. I also wasn’t expecting to see any of our teachers, but there’s Mr. Lancer, looking uncomfortably hot in a black suit that must have been from a time when he had a bit less of a gut.

I’m just trying to stuff down a totally inappropriate urge to laugh when I see Tucker. And he’s looking at me. Not just a casual glance, not a glare or a look of surprise. He’s just watching me. The desire to laugh dissolves instantly.

I turn away, but now that I know he’s staring, I can’t pretend I don’t know. After about a minute, I turn back and return his stare, with an extra dose of hostility. I might be imagining it, but I could swear the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. A smile, but there’s no humour in it.

The rest of the eulogy passes in a haze, and the officiant is replaced by a string of vaguely familiar faces mumbling platitudes. The person they’re describing doesn’t sound anything like the person I knew, and I ball my hands into fists tightly enough that my nails bite into my palms when the popular kids get up and sigh and moan over how well they knew him and how much they’ll miss him. For half a second, I almost turn to Danny to make a joke about how Paulina was so stricken with grief that she only spent one hour on her hair and makeup instead of two, before I remember and the world turns upside down all over again.

I want to scream. I want to hit someone. I want to run away from this awful place, from the merciless sun and the bugs and the droning of idiots who never understood and now never will.

Instead, I fake a sob and Jazz wraps an arm around me, in a way that would look comforting to anyone watching. The way she squeezes my shoulder, though, is a warning:  _Hold it together. There’ll be time to break down later._

Ironically, it was breaking up with Danny that brought me closer to Jazz. There’s something about pouring your heart out to an aspiring psychologist that nothing else can quite compare to. And I wasn’t talking to Tucker at the time.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

It feels like forever, but eventually, the stream of people who want to say their goodbyes dries up, and only the family are left. His father breaks down into tears at the graveside, and has to sit back down. His mother does slightly better, managing to hold back until she’s dropped a handful of dirt into the hole, but by the time she sits down her shoulders are shaking. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore, but I still feel something treacherously hot and wet prickling at the corners of my eyes, and my throat feels almost too tight to breathe.

When Jazz gets up, I almost reach out to stop her. Suddenly, I feel very alone, despite the crowds all around me. I risk a glance in Tucker’s direction, but he’s not looking at me anymore. Instead, he’s watching Jazz as she steps up to the grave. I’m half-expecting her to launch into some kind of inspirational speech – this _is_  Jazz, after all, who never misses an opportunity to get on stage or up to a microphone – but she doesn’t even turn towards the crowd. She looks down into the grave for so long that I start to wonder if she’s going to move, or do anything at all.

“I’m going to miss you, little brother,” Jazz finally says, in a quiet voice that barely sounds like her.

There’s silence for a moment, a moment that feels oddly crystallized, as if we’ve all been frozen in amber, encased in ice. Then a car horn honks somewhere in the distance, and it’s like the sound breaks the spell. Jazz steps back from the graveside, and heat and noise and life flood back into the world.

The cemetery clears out fast. Everyone’s heading for the hall downtown, where they’ll stand around eating finger food and telling reporters how devastated they are. It’s the price we pay for a funeral without flash photos and paparazzi interference, I know. But it still cheapens the whole thing somehow.

The Fentons stay back to watch the grave being filled in. I almost ask to stay with them – I feel like one of the only other people at the funeral to whom Danny actually meant something – but something stops me. The moment feels too private to intrude on.

“I never thought I’d see Danny’s parents in anything other than those jumpsuits,”  an all-too-familiar voice says from behind me as I’m looking back towards the grave. And maybe it’s frustration at just being here, or just the weirdness of this whole day, but before I can stop myself I’m spinning around to glare at Tucker.

“You have a lot of nerve showing up here after what you did,” I hiss, and watch the look on his face change from mildly amused, through shocked, and into angry in seconds.

“What  _I_  did? Isn’t that a little rich coming from you?”

A pair of passing old ladies give us a look like we’ve just stripped down to our underwear and started doing the conga in the middle of the graveyard. I lower my voice another few decibels. “Don’t you dare stand there in your fancy suit while your best friend is lying  _dead in the ground_  and call me a hypocrite.”

He’s downright scowling now, and I feel a horrible, wretched little flicker of satisfaction at having ruined his mood. “Look, I didn’t come here looking for a fight, but if that’s what you really want -”

“What? You thought I’d be so impressed by the fact that you bothered to show up to Danny’s funeral that all would be forgiven? Well, newsflash, Tucker: maybe if you’d shown up sooner, we wouldn’t be having a funeral right now.”

That scores a direct hit. “You did not just say Danny would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

“No,” I snap back. “I implied it.”

Tucker looks like he’d like to murder me. “You know what? I was just starting to get used to not having to put up with your self-righteous preachy bullshit- ”

“ _My_  self-righteous bullshit? Maybe if you’d actually listen to your own whining every once in a while -”

“Both of you!”

I can’t say I don’t jump. I’ve gotten so caught up in fighting with Tucker that I didn’t notice Jazz coming up behind me. By the look on his face, Tucker’s just as surprised by her sudden arrival as I am.

Jazz is a wreck. She looks as composed as ever, but her eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a glint in them that says she’s taken all she can take. Her voice is low and insistent. “Not now. Please. Not today.”

She’s right, of course. If Danny were here he’d flip. His two best friends fighting at his funeral?

But he’s not here. Suddenly, even shouting at Tucker loses its appeal. I just want to go home and sleep for a week. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up and this will all have been a bad dream. Then again, I’ve been telling myself that for the past week.

“Well, it was nice seeing you again,” Jazz says, in a forcibly normal tone of voice that means her parents are probably within earshot, “but I’m ready to leave. Sam, if you want a ride -”

“Yeah, I’m done here,” I answer, maybe a little too quickly.

It’s only when we’re halfway down the cemetery drive that I realize I never went to pay my respects at the grave. Somehow, I’m all right with that. The Danny I knew wouldn’t have been hanging around some boring official ceremony anyway.

I’ll say goodbye later. Once the stars come out.

 

 

**24 August, 2007**

**8:47 P.M.**

Hanging out with Danny has never been awkward before.

Then again, Danny and I have never been…well, whatever we are now before. I’m not the kind of girl who watches shmoopy romantic comedies, but I know there’s always The Kiss, the one that finally lets the two irrationally good-looking leads express their true feelings for each other and almost magically turns them into a couple. (If anyone asks how I know, I’ve sworn never to mention the time I slept over at _Paulina’s_  of all people. It was the seventh grade. We all make bad decisions in seventh grade.) It’s one of the reasons I don’t watch romantic comedies. It’s so stupid to assume one kiss can change everything like that. I mean, I’ve kissed Danny loads of times and we never suddenly realized we were made for each other or anything.

But even I’ve gotta admit – what happened at the North Pole was different. Definitely romantic. Maybe even…shmoopy. And the fact that I’m here, alone, with Danny, sitting on a hill overlooking this ridiculous statue ceremony instead of standing down in the crowd, sure seems to scream ‘couple’. Or would, if we could just break this horribly awkward silence. The Kiss is supposed to make everything magically easier, isn’t it?

I mean, not that I believe in that stuff or anything.

Finally, I realize that if I don’t say something, neither of us is going to talk at all and we’ll sit here in this tense silence until Danny has to go home for curfew. “I can’t believe you didn’t wanna attend your own ceremony!” Well, that’s not exactly true. Danny and I have been friends since pretty much forever, so I should know better than anybody (except maybe Tucker) how shy he can get about being the centre of attention. What I really can’t believe is that he skipped his own ceremony to be with  _me_.

“Well, you know me,” Danny answers, and I exhale. At least we’re talking now. “I…kinda like sitting on the sidelines sometimes.”

I can’t help a twinge of guilt – I know he’s thinking of what I said to him after he got rid of his powers. But it needed to be said. And I can tell by the way he says it – light, almost joking – that all is forgiven.

One thing’s nagging at me, though. We all saw Danny change back, and we all saw his family hugging him. But I know that one of his biggest worries has always been whether they’d accept him, and…well, his parents aren’t mine, but I’m still not sure that everything’s just perfect in the Fenton family. And even though this is the first time we’ve been able to hang out since we got back and I feel a little bad about asking, instead of just savouring the moment, I have to know. “And your folks are cool with knowing your secret identity?”

Danny just shrugs. “Yeah. The time for secrets is over.” Danny looks out towards the town, and shuts his eyes. After everything we’ve been through this summer, it’s the sweetest thing in the world to see him smile like this; not forced, not pained, without a single trace of sadness or worry or regret. “The world is safe. Time for new beginnings.” He finally turns back to me. “My dad even says he wants me to team up with _him_  now. Says I can be  _his_  sidekick.” I smile. Some things never change.

And then, some things do. Looking down at the crowd gathered around the statue, I can’t help but remember how things were just over two years ago, when nobody but Danny, Tucker and me even knew Danny Phantom existed. I wouldn’t go back now. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t change a thing. But…

“You’re a big star now. Probably the biggest in the world.” I consider making some crack about him getting too mainstream, but I decide against it. This – whatever it is – is still too new, too fragile. And we’re both being serious together. That’s rare enough that I don’t want to ruin it.

“Yeah,” Danny answers, and he sounds like he’s really thinking about it, maybe for the first time. “It’s weird, huh?”

“It’ll probably get pretty busy,” I continue, remembering the swarm of paparazzi that descended on Amity as soon as the Earth was safe, the frantic research into Amity Park’s electoral laws to figure out how a sixteen-year-old could legally take the mayoral office, the very scary ‘little chats’ with the Guys in White. “Pretty busy” is an understatement.

Then again, it’s nothing we haven’t faced before. And I know Danny’s thinking the same thing when he replies, “What else is new?”

And here’s the hard part. I don’t want to come right out and admit that I’ve missed him these past few weeks, but, well, I’ve missed him these past few weeks. And not knowing for sure exactly where we stand hasn’t made it any easier, especially since, for some weird reason, every time I think about that stupid kiss, or even just about Danny, I get…fluttery. It isn’t butterflies in my stomach. That’s way too mild (and cliché). It feels more like an entire flock of bats, and it sure doesn’t stay in my stomach.

“And…I probably won’t see much of you anymore,” I manage, lamely, after what feels like eternity.  _Oh, good going, Sam. That’s really going to show him how much you care about him._  But it’s as close as I can get to admitting my real fear – that this is just too good to last.

I shouldn’t have worried.

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that.” Danny pauses, fishes in his pocket for just long enough for the bats to start fluttering again. Is he –

He pulls out something that gleams in the fading sunlight. It’s that corny class ring, which somehow doesn’t seem corny at all right now. And when he takes my hand, even though I know he runs colder than normal people, my hand still feels oddly warm in his, Then again, I feel kind of warm all over. I hope I’m not blushing too obviously.

Danny looks directly at me as he slides the ring onto my finger, and all of a sudden I can’t quite see properly. There’s a thin film between me and the world. I blink, and realize that I’m tearing up.  _I’m_  tearing up. What  _is_  this?

“Sam, I could never have done any of this without you. And I don’t care what’s coming next. I -” He stumbles slightly over the word. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that he’s feeling anything near as overwhelmingly nerve-wracking as I am, and somehow it just makes the fluttering in my chest stronger, until I think I’m going to burst open. The bats have left the belltower. “I just hope that whatever it is, you’re there to share it with me.”

“I will be,” I say, once I’ve managed to collect myself a little. Thankfully, it comes out clearly, without a hint of the storm of wings fuzzing my brain right now. I have to stop acting like the female lead in a romantic comedy. Right now, before it’s too late. “I just have to warn you, I’m no pushover, you know. I still have my own way of doing things.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

And all of a sudden, I can’t think of a single thing to say. When did I start seeing Danny like this? And when did he start seeing me back? I don’t know and, I realize, I don’t care. All I know for sure is that if Danny doesn’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to do something stupid. Like giggle. Or cry. Or maybe just kiss him again.

It doesn’t feel like fireworks, or like two halves of the same soul meeting, or anything like that. The earth doesn’t move under us. Music doesn’t swell in the background. No fancy aerial camerawork captures the moment. It’s just a kiss. But it happens so easily, so naturally, that we couldn’t have done better if we’d planned it. And I wonder, as we disentangle, if the next kiss might not even be better than that big, all-important, climactic one.

Danny scrambles to his feet, and holds out a hand to me as those familiar white rings flash over him. “So whaddaya say? Wanna go for a ride? See where the future takes us?”

I let him help me up, noticing in a kind of dreamy haze that, even in ghost form, Danny’s touch still makes me feel warm. “Why not?”

He doesn’t say anything more, just scoops me up bridal-style. It’s finally happened, just like my mom loves to say. A nice boy has come along and swept me off my feet. Normally I’d protest that my feet work fine and I don’t need to be carried, but today, for some reason, I don’t mind.

The feeling of weightlessness is familiar by now, but it will never not be a rush to watch the ground drop away below us. Finally, we’re really alone, above and away from the rest of the world. And I’ll never admit it, but it feels like happily ever after.

 

 

**17 August, 2009**

**4:06 P.M.**

At the end of the cemetery drive, Jazz turns right, onto the road that’ll take us back to FentonWorks. “Aren’t we supposed to be going downtown?” I ask, and she fixes me with a blank look. “For the supper. You know?”

“Oh, right!” Jazz slaps her forehead. “Ugh, I’m sorry.” She manages a watery smile. “I’m going to bits. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in the last four days – half the family came up for the funeral, so Aunt Alicia’s sleeping in my room and I’m on the couch and people keep accidentally triggering Dad’s security system in the middle of the night.” She sighs.

“Don’t you guys have a guest room?”

“Yeah, but Gran and Grandpa are using it.” She pauses. “And we couldn’t put anybody in Danny’s room.”

There isn’t anything I can really say to that. I know exactly what she means, but there isn’t a single thing I could say that would make it better.

So instead, I change the subject. “I still don’t see why we have to go to this stupid dinner thing.”

Jazz steps on the gas. “I wish I could skip it too. I don’t even know half of these people.”

“I know. And the ones I do know, I don’t like.”

Jazz sighs. “Sam, please don’t be so hard on Tucker. I’m sure he meant well -”

“Why are you taking his side? Do you remember what he did?” I don’t really want to shout at Jazz, especially not today, but right now I need a friend and it feels like a knife in the back to hear her defending _him_.

Her knuckles turn white where she’s gripping the steering wheel. “Yes. I do.” She lets out a breath, blowing her bangs away from her face. On a normal day, they’d be securely tucked away behind her headband, but the black Alice band she’s wearing doesn’t seem to be doing the job. “But one mistake doesn’t define somebody. You three used to be such good friends -”

“So did your parents and Vlad, and look how that turned out.”

Jazz gives me a look that is one hundred per cent Big Sister. “Danny forgave Tucker, Sam. Why can’t you?”

I don’t have an answer for this, so I settle for slouching down in my seat, crossing my arms, and glaring out the window. Part of me knows that it’s a very bratty fourteen-year-old thing to do, but the majority of me doesn’t care. I almost wish I were fourteen again. It seemed so hard at the time, but I’d take regular ghost attacks and an unrequited crush on a boy who doesn’t seem like he’ll ever clue in over my problems now in a heartbeat.

It isn’t long, though, before the anger runs out and I’m left feeling spent and weirdly exhausted. All I’ve been doing for the last few days is sleeping, but I still just want to go to bed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the passenger-side mirror, and am kind of surprised that I don’t have massive bags under my eyes. I look like a zombie anyway, though. No makeup, hair down, and a vacant expression. I barely recognize the girl in the mirror.

Something glints around her throat, and I look down before I remember what it is. _Crap_. I meant to leave that with Danny. What with everything that happened after we broke up, I never managed to give him back his dad’s class ring. And it doesn’t feel right to keep it now that we’re not…well, I couldn’t even bring myself to wear it on my finger for the funeral. It wouldn’t have been right. I’ll have to take it with when I go back to say goodbye.

I wish I could stop crying. I don’t cry. I’m made of tougher stuff than this. But today I’ve been a fountain, and now my throat’s tightening up again. I haven’t cried all week, so I don’t know why now. Maybe it’s all this funeral business. It didn’t seem really real before, but the funeral makes it more solid. I mean, I know he’s dead, I’ve known for a week, but until we actually put him in the ground, I couldn’t quite believe that I couldn’t just call his house and talk to him, or drop by and find him playing computer games in his room.

I still can’t really believe it, that he’s just…gone.

We’re just passing by FentonWorks when I see something that makes my breath catch in my throat. Flying through the closed front door, a glowing figure in black and white –

I grab Jazz’ hand, shouting for her to stop. She jumps, pulls away from me, but thankfully, she steps on the brake. We stop so abruptly that the entire car lurches forward, taking us with it. I shake my head to clear it from the jolt, fling off my seatbelt, and jump out of the car before Jazz can pull the key from the ignition. She follows at a slightly less panicked pace. “Sam, what the – _Danielle?_ ”

It’s not Danny. Of course it isn’t. Now, I can’t believe I’d even mistaken her for him in the first place.

Dani doesn’t say anything at first, just leans heavily against the hood of Jazz’ car. She’s breathing hard, like she’s just run a mile – or flown the length of the Ghost Zone, which is probably closer to what really happened. Between breaths, she manages a few words. “Hope – I’m not - too late?”

Jazz and I exchange a look. “Well, the funeral’s just finished,” Jazz answers, as kindly as she probably can right now. “But everyone’s getting together downtown for dinner, and you can still make that.”

Dani gives her a horrified stare. “The funeral was today? And I missed it?”

“Of course it was today,” I snap. I’ve been doing that a lot today. Then again, I haven’t exactly had massive reserves of patience lately.  “What else would you have been late for?”

“Not _late for_.” There’s a flash of brilliant white light, and when I blink away the afterimages, Dani’s human. Or _in human form_ , anyway. What with all the time she spends in the Zone and hanging around the ghosts there, I don’t know how human Danny’s clone actually is. “Too late.”

“If you weren’t coming back for the funeral, then what -” Jazz begins, but Dani’s finally got her breath back and interrupts her mid-sentence.

“I flew all the way here from Clockwork’s tower. I had to warn you.” She pauses for breath. Whatever else she might have picked up from living in the Ghost Zone, she’s definitely adopted a ghostly flair for the dramatic. It probably wouldn’t bug me so much on a normal day, but this isn’t a normal day.

“Warn us about _what_?” I demand.

Dani opens her mouth, but whatever she’s about to say is lost in the thunder of an explosion.

 

 

**10 August, 2007**

**3:24 P.M.**

“I always knew you lovebirds would end up together.”

I groan, for what feels like the fifth time this plane ride. “ _Tucker_!”

“What? Everybody saw you two smooching out on the ice.” Tucker bats his eyes, until I smack him in the arm to make him stop.

“Really? Everybody?” I’d thought we were alone out there. Then again, we were standing in the middle of an open ice field. Not exactly the most private location.

“Sorry, but yeah. You guys were pretty obvious.” He smirks, and then looks at my face. “Hey, I’m happy for you! And it took you both long enough. I had ten dollars on you getting together last summer.”

“ _What_?”

“Well, at least Dash is gonna lose that bet too. His money was on end of senior year.”

After a few seconds of flapping my mouth open and closed trying to think of something to say, I finally manage, “You took bets on whether Danny and I would -”

“Not whether.” Tucker grins, that big, proud, I’m-not-the-one-in-this-situation grin that always makes me want to smack it off him. Jerk. “ _When_. And I didn’t take the bets. Mikey was running the pool.”

 “Not exactly making it better. Did the whole school know about this?”

Tucker takes a moment to think about it. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Cue another groan.

“So, have you actually talked to Danny since then?” Tucker asks, after I pick my head up out of my hands.

“Not really,” I admit, a little grudgingly. It’s not that I want everybody to know that we’re…well, whatever we are, but there’s a tiny little piece of me that wants to stand on top of that conductor pole the engineers built and scream into a megaphone that  _DANNY PICKED ME_. And admitting that I haven’t actually talked to him since that kiss feels kind of like admitting that it wasn’t really that special after all. I know Danny’s been busy, talking to his family, fielding reporters, and whatever else, but it’d be nice if he could just steal five minutes to come see me.  I mean, he can turn invisible and walk through walls, it’s not like he couldn’t sneak away if he really wanted to. But I know how selfish that is, so I keep my mouth shut. “But I get it. His parents are probably pretty freaked.”

“Not to mention the rest of the world,” Tucker adds.

“Yeah,” I agree, and then something strikes me. “Tucker, you were up in the control tower, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was,” he answers, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Was it just me, or was Valerie there?”

Tucker gives me a blank look, and then snaps his fingers. “Her dad was! He was one of the engineers. So I bet she was there.”

“Great. I wonder how she’s taking it.”

“Finding out that the boy she had a major crush on and the boy she’s spent the past two years hunting because she’s convinced he ruined her life are one and the same person? I’m gonna say she’s probably taking it pretty hard.”

I wince. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t expected it, although I wasn’t really thinking about Valerie when we kissed. Or at all.

Tucker shrugs. “Maybe now I can catch her on the rebound.” He grins, this big jack-o’-lantern smile, and ducks before I can punch him in the arm. “Joking! Although, now she knows your boyfriend’s Danny Phantom -”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Oh, really?”

I slouch down in my seat, as if that’s going to hide the blush, and stare out the window at the evergreen forests flashing past miles below us. “I don’t know, okay? I mean, one kiss doesn’t mean two people are dating. It’s not like it’s a fairytale or something.”

Tucker crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Now who’s clueless?”

This time, he doesn’t duck quite fast enough.

The rest of the plane ride is oddly quiet, considering that I’m on a plane with Tuckerof all people. I’m beginning to worry by the time we start circling around to land when, out of nowhere, he says, “Everything’s going to be different now.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” I start, but when he doesn’t even crack a grin, I realize I’ve totally misjudged his mood. “Yeah, some things are gonna change, and it’s probably gonna be weird for a while. But we’ve been through weirder.”

“I think this is gonna be a little weirder than we’ve had before,” Tucker mutters, playing with his PDA and not meeting my eyes.

I take a moment to think about it. What with the whole kiss thing (and the threat of imminent apocalypse), I haven’t really had time to think about what happens next. And, I’m realizing, I have no idea what the future might have in store for any of us.

“Maybe,” I admit, a little grudgingly. “But we’ll get through it together. We always do.”

Tuck looks back up at me, and give me a small, tentative, very un-Tucker-like smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you looked like you could use a visit from the Goth Bird of Happiness.”

That gets me an actual smile. And then Tucker looks out the window, down the runway towards the airport. “Hey, am I seeing things, or are those your parents out on the tarmac?”

 

 

**17 August, 2009**

**4:21 P.M.**

For a second, I’m convinced we’re under attack, and my hand flies to my wrist where I’d usually have my trusty Fenton Wrist-Ray. Except it’s not there. It takes me a moment to remember that I’d left it at home, feeling it would be a little inconsiderate to wear ghost-hunting equipment to a funeral. Especially _Danny’s_ funeral.

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

When a few interminable seconds pass without any more explosions or anything trying to kill us, though, I manage to relax slightly. Jazz looks almost as tense as I feel, scanning the street with an ecto-pistol (where was she even keeping that?) at the ready. Dani’s clenched fists are glowing green, ready to fire, but she’s as white as a sheet of paper, and for the second time I can remember since I met her, she isn’t putting on the cocky smile she usually wears before a fight. She looks scared out of her wits.

_"I flew all the way here from Clockwork’s tower."_

And that’s when I know what she’s here to warn us about.

Or, rather, who.

“Where is he?” I shout, and Dani looks at me like I’ve just asked her to pull out her own intestines.

“That came from downtown,” Jazz says, and I can tell by the way she looks from Dani to me that she’s drawing her own conclusions. And they’re horrible ones.

I know I’m saying what we’re both thinking. “Everybody’s at the dinner.”

Jazz looks sick for a moment, then she nods. “We’re going to need heavier artillery.” I think I know how she feels – there’s a nausea building in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with being sick.

“I’ve got all the artillery I need.” Dani holds up a glowing fist. The effect is slightly spoiled by the fact that it’s shaking. “I’ll meet you downtown.” There’s another flash, and she takes off, a black and white streak soaring over the city.

Every second we spend picking weapons from the lab seems to take an eternity. Driving downtown seems to take even longer, even though Jazz’ driving would probably scare even her dad. All I can think about is whether we’ll get there in time. Part of me is waiting for the next explosion, but there’s a chilly suspicion hardening into certainty that the reason there hasn’t been a second explosion is because the first one did its job.

I can smell the smoke before either of us sees it. Seconds later, we drive straight into a billowing green-tinged cloud. The hint of burnt ozone mingled with the stench of dust and ash yanks me back to the worst moments of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell scorched ectoplasm without being reminded. For a second, I can barely breathe, like I’m drowning in air.

By the time we reach the hall, it’s next to impossible to see through the clouds of smoke. Sirens in the distance – so Amity Park does have an emergency response team that isn’t Danny Phantom. Good to know. They won’t get here in time, though. I’m not even sure we’ve gotten here in time.

Only half of the hall’s still standing; the other half is a smoking heap of rubble. The whole street is eerily quiet – that is, other the screaming sirens echoing through the smoke towards us. There’s no more time to stall. If the police get here and we’re outside, nothing’s going to get us in. And no ordinary emergency response team is going to be able to handle what’s got to be waiting inside.

Jazz barely even hesitates, pulling up onto the sidewalk with an enormous jolt and bringing her little car to a screeching halt inches from the door. She grabs the Fenton Peeler and a few handguns and dashes out of the car.

It feels like I’m trapped in one of those nightmares where something awful’s chasing you and you can’t move fast enough. Except that the awful thing isn’t chasing me. Instead, I’m going after _it_. For half a pathetic, wretched second, I consider just starting the car and driving away. Let someone else handle things for a change. But I shake the thought away almost as soon as I have it. That’s what Tucker did – abandoned Danny, left him alone to handle things on his own. And even though it doesn’t mean anything now, I won’t let Danny down like that.

I strap my trusty wrist ray into place, grab the Fenton Bazooka from the backseat despite the part of me that’s screaming it won’t do any good, and head into the building.

 

 

**13 August, 2009**

**5:02 PM**

I can’t see.

Somewhere off in the cloud of green-tinged dust and smoke, lights flash dully, accompanied by the muffled sounds of explosions. Anyone watching would think they’d just stumbled into a war film. But no bombs would leave behind this stench of burnt ozone and the tinny smell of electricity. That only comes from ectoplasm.

I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I didn’t know what it means.

I don’t know where anyone else is. I don’t know if Jazz ever showed up, or where Tucker ran off to, or who’s winning. All I know is that I can’t see, and I keep hearing the one person I care most about in the whole world screaming. And screaming. And screaming until it slams into me and knocks me off my feet like a physical force and I think my eardrums are going to explode. But Danny won’t use that power if he can help it, not when there are other people around. Not unless he doesn’t have any other choice.

It’s a nightmare. I need to be there, I need to be with him, but I can’t go any faster. I can’t run, or I know I’ll trip on something I can’t see and probably break a leg and then I won’t be any good. I have to be able to fight. If Danny – if Danny can’t –

I  _have_  to find him.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. It feels like the world is holding its breath, and I don’t want to know what it’s holding its breath for.

There’s a break in the clouds, just long enough for me to see a burst of brilliant green light. And then another billow of smoke rolls right in front of me as an unfortunately very familiar shriek shatters the silence. It’s a sound I’ve heard twice before, a sound I’d hoped never to have to hear again.

It’s the sound of my best friend dying.

 

 

**10 August, 2007**

**4:53 P.M.**

After what feels like an eternity of incredibly embarrassing (and incredibly atypical) smothering hugs, I barely get to say goodbye to Tucker before my parents whisk me into the car.

“What about my stuff? And aren’t we supposed to go through customs?” I ask my father, who laughs.

“You just saved the world, sweetheart,” he says, and the emotion in his voice is so unfamiliar that it takes me nearly a full minute to realize it’s pride. “They can bend the rules for you for a few days.”

He says something else, too, about how they had someone pick up my luggage and how we technically didn’t even leave the country since the North Pole is internationally owned, but I’m not really listening. There’s a tiny spark of an idea flickering in the back of my brain.

“Your grandmother is so excited that you’re finally coming home,” my mother chirps, sounding more like she’s the excited one. “We’ve all been watching the news, keeping track -”

“- and I _knew_ there was something weird about that Fenton kid,” my father adds, in an undertone, and I hold back a sigh. Ah, family. Even when they’re giving out uncharacteristic hugs and outpourings of praise, they never really change.

“That weird Fenton kid just saved the entire world from certain destruction, while you were sitting at home watching it on the nightly news,” I remind them, gently. Or maybe not-so-gently.

“Well, of course, but -” my mother starts, and I boil over.

“And, for your information, we’re dating.”

 It’s worth it just to see the looks on their faces.

“Samantha, don’t talk to your mother like that,” my father warns me.

“Don’t call me Samantha,” I shoot back. “And what is your problem with Danny anyway?”

“Samantha, we worry about you,” my mother begins. “You’re our little girl, and we just want you to be safe and happy -”

“Then respect my individuality, stop insulting my friends, and _stop calling me Samantha_!”

My mother turns pink, as if I’ve slapped her. My father, looking thunderous, leans forward and opens his mouth, and I know I’m in for a screaming lecture and the worst grounding yet, saviour of the world or not. But my mother puts a hand on his arm and gives him a pointed look, and he sits back again, pouting slightly.

“ _Sam_ ,” my mother says, like the word tastes bad, and then pauses, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Sammykins. We’re glad you made it home safely. Can you try not to pick a fight with us for at least a day or two?’

The car pulls up in front of our house, and I jump out as soon as it stops moving. I can’t believe that, after everything that’s just happened, my parents could still be more focused on making me into a carbon copy of them than the fact that any of us are even alive. I half-expect my parents to follow, or at least start shouting, but they don’t do either. I glance back over my shoulder, to see if they’ve even noticed I’m not in the car anymore, and wonder who the white Land Rover parked in front of our neighbours’ house belongs to.

Half a second later, I smack into someone and get knocked flat on my butt.  I’m about to snap about how people should watch where they’re going, but luckily, I look up first.

“Samantha Manson?” one of the two agents asks in a voice that manages to be both flat and emotionless. The other’s brushing at his immaculately white suit where I slammed into him, making a face.

“No cleanliness breach, thank God,” he mutters.

“It’s Sam,” I say, as I get to my feet. What are the Guys in White doing here? I’d expect them to be over at Danny’s, after that big reveal on international television. But I’m not sure why they’d be at my house.

And then I realise that these aren’t the agents we’ve had to deal with before. I don’t recognize either of these guys.

We might all be in very deep trouble.

“We need to ask you a few questions about your involvement with the ghost known as Danny Phantom,” the agent who’s not trying to scrub nonexistent dirt out of his suit drones.

“Gee, I would love to, but I’m just swamped right now.” I fake a huge, sarcastic smile. “Maybe we can chat over coffee sometime.” I duck to the right, hoping to catch him off-guard and slip past.

No such luck. This agent is quicker on the uptake than the ones I’ve gotten used to, and sidesteps quickly to put himself back in my path. “This is no time to be flip. A matter of national security is at stake, and you -”

“Excuse me. What’s going on?” I never thought I’d be glad to hear my father interrupt someone, but I can’t say I feel very sorry for the Guy who’s just been cut off.

“Mr. Manson? Agent Gee, and this is Agent Jay. We’re with the government.”

My dad crosses his arms. “Do you have any identification?”

The agents exchange glances.

“Well, if you can’t prove you’re official, then I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourselves from my property and stop harassing my daughter.”

The agent who introduced himself as Gee scowls at his wristwatch. “This is a matter of national security.”

“What about my family’s security?”

Agent Jay finally abandons his suit-cleaning exercises. “Mr. Jeremy Manson? CEO of Manson Enterprises?”

My dad nods once, with a frown I recognize from the time I asked if I could take a summer road trip with Danny and Tucker – he doesn’t know what the next question is going to be, but he knows he’s not going to like it.

“Which is, interestingly, listed as an affiliate of VladCo.” Agent Jay adjusts his sunglasses. “Well. That _is_ awkward.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“We’re with the government. We can have you investigated under suspicion of supporting terrorism. Assets seized, all transactions frozen, your good name publicly dragged through the mud, possibly even arrest…”

“That’s unconstitutional!”  As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realise it might not have been the best idea to start shouting. The agents both turn back to me, like they’ve just remembered why they’re here. There goes my chance to slip away unnoticed.

Or maybe not. The car door slams, and my mother hurries over. “What’s going on? Jeremy, who are these…” She looks the agents up and down, and sniffs. “People?”

“They’re with the _government_.” I’d never admit it out loud, but I do have a thing or two in common with my parents. And one of those things is a deep distrust of the government, even if it’s for totally different reasons. (My dad thinks they overregulate business, which is a joke. What with all the time they spend planning wars, propping up the meat industry and closing down small, organic farms, and, apparently, hassling teenagers, they don’t seem to have time to regulate business at all.) “This…gentleman was just explaining how they can have us put under investigation if we don’t let them interrogate Samantha.”

“And we can have your taxes audited,” Agent Gee chimes in.

My mother’s lips narrow until she’s smiling, like a corpse. It’s the look she gets when she’s determined to get her way, a look I never thought I’d be glad to see on her face. For some reason, it’s kind of satisfying to see it aimed at someone else for once. “We keep scrupulous records. You’d only be punishing yourselves.” She turns to my father. “Investigation for what?”

“The company’s linked to the mayor’s company. Well, ex-mayor.”

My mother sniffs again, which seems to be all she has to say on the matter. “So that’s how you play?”

“We’d prefer not to, but…” Agent Jay shrugs. “Desperate times.”

My mother’s smile gets wider. I swear she’s happiest when she’s got somebody to do battle with. “Then go right ahead. Investigate us. But I hope you can get the warrants and subpoenas out of the way before we can get to the press. I don’t think the world is going to be very pleased to hear that you’re treating the heroes of the hour like criminals.”

“You -” Agent Gee starts, but my mother cuts him off.

“The next words out of your mouth had better be ‘We’re very sorry, and we won’t harass you any longer’, or -” She dips a gloved hand into her little pastel-pink handbag, and pulls out a cell phone. “The Globe and Mail hears all about this. And if you think either of my daughters’ friends would be an easier target, well, just remember we can afford a lot of lawyers.”

Agent Gee turns to Agent Jay, who hasn’t moved since my mother mentioned the press. “What protocol do we follow?”

“Abort.”

“But -”

“No. We’re calling this one off. Cut our losses.”

“Smart choice,” my mother says, smiling like a shark. “Now, please get off of my lawn. Have you got any idea how much work it takes to keep the grass looking like this?”

The agents look at her as if she’s just stolen their lollipops. My mother crosses her arms, and they deflate slightly. She watches them as they slouch (as much as those stiff-shouldered goons can slouch) off towards the Land Rover. Before they get in, though, Agent Gee turns back to face us.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he says, just on the edge of shouting.

“I hope not,” my mother snaps back. “I found this entire interaction objectionable and offensive, and I’ll be expecting a formal apology. In writing.”

That shuts him up. Both agents pile into the Land Rover and peel out of the neighbours’ driveway without another word or so much as a glance in our direction.

My mother smiles to herself.

“That was _awesome_ ,” I blurt, and my parents both look at me like I’ve just said, ‘I think I’d like to paint my room pastel pink’. “Buuuut I’m still not wearing those stupid floral prints,” I add, quickly.

“Of course you’re not,” my mother sighs. “Come on, your grandmother’s going to be insufferable if we don’t go tell her all the juicy details.”

“In a minute, okay? I have to call Tucker.” I can’t wait to see my grandma, but all of this kerfluffle has given me a brilliant idea. I’m going to have to look up Amity Park’s election laws, too, but that can wait for a bit.

Tucker picks up on the third ring. I barely give him time to say hello. “Tucker, hey! Did the Guys in White show up at your house?”

“No?”

“Great. Listen, I know you’re busy, but I’ve just had a brilliant idea. Remember that time you ran for class president?”

“Yeah? Sam, I’m kind of -”

“Well, forget class president. What would you say if I told you you could probably be the mayor?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for half a second. Then Tucker says, “I’m listening.”

 

 

**17 August, 2009**

**4:43 P.M.**

I can’t see.

I walk through the door and straight into a cloud of dust and smoke that makes me cough like I’m choking on something, and for a moment I’m sure that I am. This is the end, and after all the noble, heroic, or at least interesting deaths I’ve narrowly avoided, I’m going to choke to death on a cloud of ectoplasm-smelling, probably asbestos-laced dust. I’d laugh, if I weren’t so busy trying to breathe.

I manage to stop coughing for long enough to draw a breath, and the tinny smell of electricity and the stink of burnt ozone smack me in the face. Suddenly, I want to puke, and it’s not because of the dust. This is all too familiar and a sudden urgent need to move makes me dash forward, through the billowing smoke and into the main hall.

It’s hard to see anything through the smoke and dust, but the hall seems pretty intact. One wall is gone, nothing but a scorched and blackened crater with the skeletal remains of what might have been a buffet table lying twisted on the floor in front of it, and a massive hole in the ceiling that lets sunlight filter in through the dust. It’s still weirdly quiet, the kind of quiet you get when the world is too scared to make a noise. I catch a glimpse of Paulina, curled up on the floor by the crater where the wall used to be, clutching her leg, but she's not screaming. It’s not my first clue that something big is wrong, but still. If _Paulina_ is frightened enough to want to keep from drawing attention to herself –

There’s a mechanical whine from my left, rising in pitch as it gets closer. Before I really even have time to think, I’m spinning around, hoisting the Fenton Bazooka onto my shoulder to line up for a shot. It’s been years since I’ve fired an ecto-gun this size, and I hope I can handle the recoil.

And then the whine cuts out, and Valerie hurries out of the smoke.

She doesn’t see me at first, but when she does, she stops dead. For a moment, she looks like she’s been slapped. “Manson? _Shit_.” Then her face settles into its usual scowl, the red glow from her helmet’s visor giving it a threatening cast. “You shouldn’t’ve come.”

Now is not the time to fight with Valerie, I remind myself. “Yeah, well, here I am.” I shift the Bazooka slightly, and Valerie watches it warily. “I thought you hung up the suit. What happened here?”

She winces. “Turns out the suit’s a little harder to lose than that,” she mutters, and I make a mental note to ask for the whole story later. If there is a later. “Look, you have to get out of here.”

“No way. You’re not the only one who’s got experience fighting ghosts, and if you think I’m just going to walk away when there are people in trouble -”

“This isn’t about _ghost hunting_ , and it’s not one of your stupid _causes_ -”

There’s a scream, from somewhere above us, long and high-pitched and painful. It takes me half a second to remember. “Oh, no.”

I wonder if Valerie notices that she’s clenching her fists, or that there’s a missile launcher unfolding from the left shoulder of her suit. I wonder if she knows it’s pointed right at me. “What? What’s going on? _Who else is up there?_ ”

“Danielle was -”

Valerie doesn’t even let me finish my sentence. “You let a fourteen-year-old kid -” She snaps her heels together, and her jet sled unfolds out of thin air, that same mechanical whine climbing up the octaves. “I’ve gotta go help her. Stay. Put,” she commands, jumping into the air. I’m just opening my mouth to retort that _we_ were fourteen, when there’s an enormous flash from above us and a noise like a rocket lifting off.

The ceiling explodes.

I duck, using the Fenton Bazooka as a shield as chunks of roof rain down around me. Something heavy glances off of my left shoulder, and I bite my tongue. That’s going to leave a bruise.

It only takes a few seconds for the last of the big pieces of ceiling to fall, and an eerie hush settles over the room, broken only by the occasional clatter of dislodged rubble. I straighten up cautiously, half-expecting something else to fall on me. Most of the ceiling is still up, from what I can see, but a faint yellowish glow in the cloud of dust around the middle of the room is probably another unwanted skylight.

I look around for Valerie, but can’t see her anywhere. Then again, I can’t really see more than a foot in front of my face. Dust is everywhere, thick and choking and blocking out the light. It’s already beginning to settle, though; the light from the latest hole in the roof is growing brighter by the second and –

There’s another flash, and something glowing so bright a blue that it’s almost white streaks down through the hole in the roof. There’s a percussive _thump_ too low to really be heard as it meets the ground, and the floor shakes, knocking me over. I drop the bazooka in a vain attempt to catch myself, but I still land hard on my butt on a pile of rubble, and for a few long, painful seconds, I can’t catch my breath.

And then, as I pull myself back to my feet and start looking for the bazooka, the dust settles enough for me to make out what’s going on over by the meeting hall’s newest skylight, and I forget how to keep breathing.

Dani’s bleeding, ectoplasm pouring down over one eye from a gash on her forehead, and her whole front is glowing a sickly green. I can’t tell if she’s hurt, or how badly, but it doesn’t look good.

But I can’t seem to make myself move, or even convince myself that this is really happening. It has to be a nightmare, an illusion, some kind of trick conjured up specifically to have exactly this effect on me.

Because when she raises a shaking fist and fires what looks, even to me, like a very weak ectoblast, it’s aimed at the boy we buried this afternoon.

 

 

**5 November, 2004**

**12:54 PM**

“Man,” Tucker says, watching Dash, Kwan, and Paulina walk away, “if you thought it was hard to find a place to go ghost during school hours  _before_ …”

We’re sitting at one of the picnic tables outside the cafeteria, as far away from the herd as possible, but I still can’t help but feel horrendously exposed. And if I’m this uncomfortable, I can only imagine how Danny must feel. It’s him, after all, that the headline of the Amity Park Angle is screaming about in bright red capital letters. It’s him who actually has to worry about getting caught. Yeah, we all have to watch what we say and where, but Tucker and I aren’t in any real danger if we accidentally let something slip.

I honestly hadn’t expected Danny to show up at school today. And I really wouldn’t have blamed him if he hadn’t. If I’d had a week like his, I would’ve spent my first day of something resembling normalcy curled up under a mound of blankets faking a fever.

But no. He was here for first class (and, surprisingly, on time), and he hasn’t even mentioned going home. I gotta say, I’m impressed. This is, after all, the same guy who skipped nearly a whole month of school, on and off, after the portal accident. (Tucker was impressed by how much he managed to milk it without letting on what had really happened. Personally, I was a little worried. But I’d never tell anyone that. Especially not Danny.)

It’s just so unfair. If people would just think for themselves every once in a while, instead of letting themselves be spoon-fed by the media, then maybe Danny would be getting the credit he actually deserves, instead of a fearmongering front-page spread in a local newspaper.

“So, even with everybody thinking you’re a bad ghost, you’re still going to try to be the hero?” I ask, folding the paper in half. I can’t keep reading this article or I’m going to start shouting and breaking things.

Danny just shrugs, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Like he hasn’t just made a decision that might be a matter of life and death. That  _will_  be a matter of life and death. Like there wasn’t any other choice he could have made. “Well, somebody’s gotta. Hey, if not me, who’s gonna protect this town?” And he smiles. It’s that little, totally genuine smile he gets sometimes when he thinks no one’s watching. I’ve seen it when he’s just mastered a new power, or sat down in front of a test he’s totally prepared for. And once, just once, when I asked him to dance.

 “Besides, it’s not like I can ignore a scream for help,” Danny continues, and I flash back to his first real fight. It comes as a shock to realise he’s right. This isn’t the laid-back, risk-averse Danny Fenton I thought I knew, the Danny who hid under a blanket for nearly a month after the accident. This Danny stands up for what he really cares about, even when it could get him in serious trouble. He’s been beat down, he’s lost plenty of fights, but he’s never once backed out or run away when he was needed.

My best friend is a hero.

And it’s kind of… _cute._

I’m snapped out of my revelations by an oddly high-pitched screech of “HEEEELP!” Oddly high-pitched because it’s coming from Mr. Lancer, as Danny’s parents chase him with what looks like a full arsenal of Fenton Inventions.

“Except that one.” Danny smirks, and we all dissolve into helpless giggles. Nothing’s going to be the same from now on, but at least our friendship hasn’t changed.

And if you believe that, there’s a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you. 

 

 

**17 August, 2009**

**4:57 PM**

He’s dead. Has to be.

But I’d recognize that mop of scruffy black hair anywhere.

 

 

**29 July, 2006**

**6:26 PM**

The rooftop of Fentonworks might have the best view in town, but it’s still windier than a wind tunnel and colder than Danny’s hands (and trust me, they’re pretty icy). And right now that view just looks out on the swirling green Ghost Zone, which is not exactly an inspiring sight.

Besides, the giant suit of biomechanical armour standing in the middle of the launchpad – with my best friend at the controls – sort of draws the eye.

I probably shouldn’t be surprised. Danny has a talent for getting himself into the middle of things. And, as corny as it sounds, he’s a hero.  _Our_  hero. There’s no way he’d have let anyone else take this risk.

But I can’t help but wish, as the suit starts up with a crackle of electricity, that it wasn’t Danny doing this. He’s right, of course, that it couldn’t always be easy. Not that I’d ever admit it, but he usually is. Right, that is. About the things that really matter, anyway.

I dig my nails into the palm of my right hand and wish I weren’t such a stupid coward. He’d practically come right out and asked, and I’d hesitated. And just like that, I’ve lost my chance. Maybe my last chance.

It’s too late now, though. No time for conversation, and definitely no time for regret. When Danny looks over at us, I realise I look less than encouraging and manage to dredge up a small smile from somewhere deep down, turning my clenched fist into a thumbs-up. I can’t fall apart now, not with Danny about to fly off into who knows what.

It gets a little harder to hold onto the smile thinking about it. Even though I don’t really want to give the thought a chance, it refuses to go away. Of course we didn’t think it was all going to be as easy as sucking the Box Ghost into the Fenton Thermos. But this is so much bigger than anything we’ve  ever faced before, and it’s only now that it hits me: Danny might really not come back. I can’t help but replay his reassuring “I’ll be back” over and over in my head. Even in my memory, it sounds hollow, as if he’s only trying to convince Tucker and me.

Because the very next thing he said proved he was beyond convincing himself.

“ _But if there’s anything you wanted to say to me…_ ”

Of course. He’s right about the things that really matter. Of course he asked.

Of course he isn’t the clueless one.

While Tucker and I were running around saving gorillas and playing video games, Danny’s been fighting for his life. He’s always known the risk of what we do – what  _he_  does. But then, of course he’s always known. He gets to brush it every time he goes ghost.

I can’t keep smiling after he lifts off, and for a few brief seconds the suit looks like a shooting star, as it streaks away into the depths of the Ghost Zone. I try to tell myself that it’ll be okay, that he’ll make it back, that he knows even if I couldn’t say anything. He knew he was going to die, so why wouldn’t he know how I feel? I believe it. I have to believe it.

Because if I let myself know that my best friend is flying to what could be his death and not planning on coming back, if I let myself know that he’s going without ever hearing it in my own words, from my own mouth, I’m going to break.

And I can’t break.

Danny’s going to need me when he gets back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of the fic that this was going to become, for anyone who's interested, is that the pressure of being an international hero and a teenager at the same time as starting a new relationship (for Danny) and jealousy for the recognition Danny was getting when he'd only done part of the work to save the world, as well as Danny's ingratitude (for Tucker) had split up Team Phantom, and Danny, trying to shoulder too much on his own without one-half of his friend group and essential support, and operating under an increasing amount of guilt that he couldn't save everyone all the time (only increased by Sam's hard-line approach to activism), takes some risky chances and ends up actually dead. This death, which he blames on his former best friend and girlfriend, causes him to come back as a vengeful and extremely powerful ghost, and Clockwork steps in to give Sam a chance to go back in time, undo the mistakes that Team Phantom had made, and prevent this bad end.
> 
> The point was to point out everything that went wrong in s3, why it went wrong, where it would have ended up ultimately leaving Team Phantom, and how it could have been done better. (It would also have been heavily implied that Clockwork had intentionally allowed Phantom Planet to play out in order to teach Sam an object lesson about her own selfish behaviour in much the same fashion as he did for Danny in TUE.)
> 
> It would have been a huge undertaking, if I wanted to do it well (which I did), and there are many things that I would change if I were going to write it today. Maybe someday I'll come back to it.

**Author's Note:**

> The agent can be with SHIELD if you wish.


End file.
